


Athelas and Aconite

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Aragorn in disguise, Findegil the scribe, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 10:03:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: Written for Vablatsky, who asked (in part) for Aragorn/Boromir as an AU crossover with Harry Potter, mentioning Remus Lupin as one of the characters. I didn't manage an actual HP crossover, but elements of it made their way in. I hope that's okay!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vablatsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vablatsky/gifts).



The coin arcs high into the air, seeming like a full moon cut loose from its place in the sky. When it begins to fall again, a hand snatches it out of the air with the alacrity of a falcon striking.

"Call it. Knight or Tree?" 

"Tree," he says, feeling the tiniest of prickles as he thinks of the withered branches of the White Tree in the courtyard of the Citadel.

"You did not even ask which was which."

He looks up at the young commander. "Would it have mattered, lord Boromir? Was not your mind made up already?"

The dark brows knit momentarily. "The Tree was for a safe return from the hunt."

"And I hope that is what will be," he says, eyeing the bright silver cuirass with its embossed White Tree. "That the White City will welcome her son back come the evening."

"Will you drink to my health if I return, Findegil?"

He nods, feeling as ill at ease as ever at hearing the false name he has given. It is a common name, a harmless name, but he must wear it as a shield here. As a cowl to mask him as he moves in the inner circles as a scribe and a scholar, sitting attentive but silent in the shadows of the meeting rooms. He has learned to pass unnoticed and unremarked upon among ordinary men, but here he has another challenge: the Steward himself. Ever watchful when it comes to his sons and to anyone challenging his authority.

 

The hunters return when the moon hangs bright as a coin in the sky, and he drinks to their health and to his, and he laughs along with them. Boromir seems giddy with excitement, gesticulating as he tells his tale in such detail his ale sits forgotten on the table for most of the evening. There is a thin smear of blood along his cheek, running almost to the corner of his mouth.

"It is not my own!" he hastens to say when someone points to it, and he wipes at the streak, smearing it further. "There is not a single wound on me."

 

"You said you would drink to my health, Findegil," says Boromir, sidling up to him once he has extricated himself from the knot of soldiers and well-wishers.

"I did," he admits and raises the goblet he is holding. The wine tastes too tart when he drinks deep, but he hides the grimace. "To your very good health."

"And to yours." Boromir's grin is wide and wolfish.

 

The moon is bright as ice when he glimpses it through the tall windows, but he has no more had time to fix his gaze before he feels the burn of teeth against his skin.

"What is outside that window that is more interesting than me?" Boromir's voice is sly but filled with the impatience and self-assurance of youth. "We are high above the city, so it cannot be the views of the walls."

"Nothing, my lord," he says, running his fingers through Boromir's hair to be able to push him onto his side and then onto his back. "Let me give you my full attention."

 

He knows he is trespassing in so many ways, knows this is reckless beyond measure. He knows, and yet here he is. 

 

"This is a double victory for me," grins Boromir. "First the Warg and now you."

"Have I been prey?" he asks.

"Not prey. A prize." Boromir sounds proud and triumphant. "You were harder to snare and the pursuit was longer. But one worth the effort. I see now that there is much more to you than meets the eye."

"Did you assume that I would be as dull and dry as the vellum I write on?" He counts off ribs as his hand slides along Boromir's side, then cups his palm over the arch of a hipbone.

"I assumed n-nothing," says Boromir, voice hitching ever so slightly as Aragorn's fingers wrap around his cock. "I intended to find out."

"What have you found out?" He keeps the strokes slow and even, and drinks in the sight of Boromir's slowly unravelling composure.

"That you talk too much."

The only words spoken after that are half-formed, shouldered aside by groans or the occasional gasp. The moonlight mixed with candlelight turns Boromir ghostly pale for a moment before clouds skim over the sky, and the dried streak of blood along his cheek that he has not washed off turns the sight more macabre. Aragorn leans in to kiss him harshly to shake the sinister illusion, and relishes the fervour with which Boromir returns the kiss. Nothing lifeless about it, only burning excitement that pulls him with it, and he gives in gladly. 

He does not know how many hours have passed when he leaves, but the light he can glimpse through the window is pale. Boromir sleeps still, exhausted but with a sated smile on his lips, and Aragorn affords himself a moment to simply look at him before he turns to leave. His steps are soundless out of habit even though the long corridors are silent and dark.

Boromir is young and strong, as tall as his father and with so many of his features. For a moment, Aragorn feels a chill run down his spine at the thought of Denethor ferreting out just what his eldest son does in the dark hours of the night. And with whom. He is on the cusp of undoing his stealthy work, for he has no doubt that his disguise, elaborately woven though it is, might be rent asunder by a careless action. By a stray word.

 

But that was many years ago. A man's age ago. Findegil is nothing but a memory now, a disguise that served him well before being shed. 

 

The Citadel is his home now, not his hunting ground.

Boromir's rooms have been left unchanged as a mark of respect, and the air is thick with dust when he pushes the door open. But the dust has nothing to with how his throat suddenly feels squeezed closed. The room begins to tilt gently, and he grabs onto the back of a chair to keep himself upright. His heart is beating in his ears, a harsh clamour of blood, and the fresh wound on his hand is bright with agony.

_"A mongrel pup, my King, half this and half that, and wild as a Warg. We found him on yester-eve's hunt, but whether he will grow to serve us or only himself is anyone's guess. Take care, he will nip at you if left unchecked."_

_Yellow eyes. The look straight at him, distract him, and then he feels the jagged teeth cut his skin. At his yelp, the dog lets go and bounds away, turning in the middle of its lope to look at him again. Like a taunt. He shakes his hand and winces, but when he inspects it, the damage seems very mild. Water and balm to dress it, and it should heal by itself. He pushes aside the darker thought._

He leans heavily on the chair, closing his eyes, but the room seems unnaturally bright still, light filtering through his eyelids.

_But there is no light here save moonlight._

_Moonlight._

The full moon has become a white sun, and he blinks against the light filtering in through the high windows. Summoning every ounce of strength he has, he pushes himself upright and staggers toward the door. His ears are ringing.

 

There is a single silver coin set on the black-wood surface of the writing desk, far too bright and untouched by dust.

_Call it. Knight or Tree?_

 

He barely makes it back to his chambers, since the hallways seem to shrink and widen by turns, and he stumbles on his way to the bed. No sooner has he slumped on it than Arwen is beside him, having heard his unsteady steps. Her hand is cool against his forehead, the firm but gentle touch of a healer. 

"Athelas," she says, more to herself than to him, her voice ragged with worry. When she stands up, he grasps her trailing sleeve.

"Not athelas," he manages. "Aconite."

She frowns. "What makes you ask for poison?" She halts his protest by lifting her hand. "Can you trust yourself to count out enough to heal and not harm?"

He smiles despite his pain, despite the roiling unease. She is her father's daughter. "I have to," he says. 

 

The brew sickens him violently, but seems to temper some of the unrest that jitters in his limbs and clouds his sense. 

Until, on the third month, it ceases to work.

He dares not brew it stronger for worry he will poison himself, but it is still too weak to aid him. His mind races as he struggles to find an alternative, but none present themselves. There is nothing in the tomes in the furthest, hidden shelves of the library, and there are none he might ask. Once, he might have sought out Gandalf, but now that is denied him. The wisest of his advisors is Mithrandir no more but instead Olorín, now that the swan ship has sailed.

His limbs tremble and his bearing resembles the stoop of an old man unless he forces himself to straighten up. He is desperate for the bite of cold night air, for a return to the wilderness that he made his home for year upon year as a Ranger, but knows that whatever ails him will bite all the sharper if he sees the moon. 

And yet... 

 

The Pelennor is vast and dark, though to his eyes it is almost bright. The grass bends with his passing, only rustling in whispers blending into the winds hissing over the plain. Only night birds are awake, and there is the occasional sharp chirp of a bat as it dives to strike at prey.

Out of the deep shadows of the city walls, he passes through moonlight, failing to hold back a shiver. He cannot keep from looking up at the moon, at the silver disc fixed high up in the night sky like a coin set on basalt.

He quickens his pace, intent on crossing unseen to the outer gates, and the ground seems to flow under his feet.

 

There is a scream in the darkness, a fox calling to kin, but he does not stop. Instead, he crouches a little lower and breaks into a faster run, heading for a breach in the Rammas Echor that has still not been mended. There are sentries posted by each breach, but they are watching for disturbances from without. Not from within.

He moves as swiftly and as silently as a shadow behind the back of the sentry as the man turns to recommence his steady-paced walk up and down beside his allotted stretch of wall.

 

If the Pelennor was cold, then the rocky shore of the Anduin is twice as icy. The sounds of the river are restless, not soothing, and he paces by the water's edge, still winded from the harsh run he has forced himself through. So many leagues in darkness over dry grass, and yet he remembers so little of it. All he can recall is the need to get away, to escape the White City even though he is its King.

In the moonlight, it seems the river runs with blood. Though he knows the water must lap clear at the rounded stones of the shore, to his eyes it is viscous and dark. The air here is full of old echoes of clashing weapons. Of the sound of crude bowstrings. Of arrows striking flesh.

There is a howl building in his throat, and while he knows he could give it voice, he bites down on it. His jaw clenches, both with cold and with the effort of keeping quiet.

When he bends his head, he sees his wavering reflection in the dark water. Yellow eyes look back at him, and now the howl tears itself free.


End file.
